Footfalls of Dionysus

At last, whenever my feet hit the scorching desert sand; feel the sand transformed into semi-muddiness; when my foot falls naked upon a cholla spine; when the floor of aspen leaves feel my feet tread upon them, welcomingly;  this chilly mountain torrent which sends shivers toward the topmost hairs of my head…With each footfall I find myself always somewhere, ‘y llega siempre,’ and I cannot help that I arrive in each instance more a pessimist than before.

No. Unlike those crusty old German men I will not assign this world as the worst of all possible worlds. My feet hate dirges, my ears the sound of the abacus!  For this world is the only one possible through which I may live! And I cannot count against this world, and thus my life, for any of the suffering inherent as ‘life.’

A strange pessimist I may have become in each and every footfall. I surprise myself. I love surprises; chance. While I can weigh my approval and disapproval of things, that I’m able to weigh at all becomes my delight and my frolic. That I’m able to meander through the tempests, some which might even kill me, or the lush mountain greenery where I pick berries and sustain myself, is my pessimism. I go where my feet may go and can take me; dancing, trudging, running, a shuffle…

Footfalls in a Dionysian pattern of desire. Where I arrive is who I’ve become, no matter the time of day, how dark the night. May I no longer curse my own arrival nor those horizons and glow-worm stars almost out of sight!

Come: let us thoroughly forget God in our gratitude, drown the philosophers’ monotonous praise of the over-worldly and scent the air with our joyous presto , and in our hedonism push every half-living shalt(not)-sayer from their lofty perches so in the very least their blood fertilizes the verdant ones remaining with wish and will to live! That through one’s naked feet upon the ground one may become ever more the ‘sense of the Earth!’

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‘Trumpet Vines’ Reverberation

I don’t want the presents which
Contrary to your intention, are
The very denial of what you give.” -Ricardo Reis

It’s become so ingrained, the platitudes we offer Nature, and yet, there’s no clear sense of just who is to receive our intended gifts! But then offering a gift from a fearful distance may make one wonder if the real recipient is none but ourselves from the outset.

‘Nature’ is a concept and no matter how vague it may be, it’s a dominating concept, a ‘higher ideal.’ Just when we could move in closer, we keep our distance. Safe. Out of harms way. If we were to move close, we’d sense a thousand-million leaves, some of them thorny spines who want not our embraces; that black widow there; those ferns hanging by that spring and the fungi below our feet; all each unique. ‘Nature’ provides us with a wall of green at best. We can never turn toward it because there is no ‘it’ to turn toward — except our own reflection. ‘Nature’ a reflecting pool, our mirror.

Reverence toward ‘nature,’ only deepens our alienation from those we’ve already once denied our gifts. Do we not assume that gratitude is something we ought to show? Do we not stifle every opportunity for each of those ‘thousand-million leaves’ to be grateful for us, not only through our concept ‘nature,’ but in reverent feelings? Reverence isn’t rejoicing. That we con-fuse wariness with intimacy, awe with an embrace, is symptomatic of just how ill-constituted for joy we’ve become. (1)

Why the fearful distance?

Perhaps partly for the illusion of control (as has been pointed out by others). Control for our ‘well-being,’ our commerce, our ‘progress,’ and so forth. Maybe this is partly why we chose the name ‘nature.’ With only a touch of skepticism on our part we can see in this word the piece of arbitrariness which girds it. Namely, that ‘birth/generation’ supports us in every way: our food, the narcissism that all else is but a stage for our ‘human’ drama, to assuage our fear of death/disappearance, etc. That our well-being, that which we like, signs off for all which exists.

And maybe if we delve a bit more still we’ll find that if we move closer, to meet and mingle, with so many other unique ones, that not all are willing to become our friend, desire our intimacy or reciprocate our warm feelings. Again, there are spines and thorns, venom, running and hiding, camouflage, attacks…this in degrees and gradations not ‘either/or’ for not all desire our company in precisely the same way or manner.

And we fluctuate, change, as well. To forget this is to retain a bit of a belief of ‘afterlife,’ continuation of our ‘isness,’ that ‘no’ against living.

Yes! Sometimes we’re able to stand more, we’re stronger, more healthy, vibrant, full; and thus we can digest that which we previously believed cruel.

To be sure, ‘nature’ allows us to forget the ‘cruel facts’ in the very act ‘existing’ in order to revere ‘it’ and, conversely, condemn ‘it’ because of ‘its’ cruelty. Additionally, we can also blot out our own deep fear of rejection by those many we depend upon for our very existence. By relegating every unique one to ‘nature’ we’re able to deceive ourselves into believing we ‘know’ every one of the thousand-million leaves since we can talk among ourselves about them, with little to no play with them, and hence they reside always just below our self-presumed rank. We might not feel so alone with our own reflection, but this is only superstition arising once more, since we’re never truly isolated to begin with. We’re always accompanied by innumerable and often imperceptible relations.

That we simply don’t like the character of some of those relations, or conversely, to trumpet those selections loudly, says more about ‘us’ than it does all those we commit to our dyspeptic asylum, ‘nature.’ Might it be possible that a few arrive yet at a gastronomy where they find ‘nature’ completely abhorrent to their taste (as far too bland, at best) upon tasting the array of flavors available to them? To each I and You?

 

  1. ‘Revere’ and ‘wariness’ stem from the same root word

My Surrealistic Egoist Anarcho-Rusticism

My egoist anarchy begins to look like — anarcho-rusticism (ha!). What this means to you makes no real difference to me, unless I care. Regardless. I’m not in charge of your visions, your meanings, your musings.

My anarcho-rusticism has nothing to do with a doctrine, cannot be a blueprint. I’ve not drawn it out. I have no grand plan; even for myself.

I’ve not drawn it out, because ‘it’ is no-thing and I’ve not lived it out yet. I’m writing these words out, after all!

Anarcho-rusticism is simply a couple of notions brought forth; an instance of poesis cobbling themselves together one day of their own accord – image(s) and meaning(s)–pointing toward a description. A surrealist opening of and toward the Marvelous.

The Marvelous: neither ‘thing’ nor state-of-being. But a play where player and played are neither remain figure nor ground; inseparable in the playing.